A Study in Crimson
by WithinWhimsy
Summary: Life isn't the same after The Fall, especially for those left behind. But John and Sherlock find themselves tangled in a web even greater than that of The Great Game, startled to be caught in a place where two worlds collide. The board has been set, the pieces in check, all they can do is play on. (Future Johnlock)
1. Chapter One: Sing Me To Sleep

**Author's Note**

**This is a reboot. Apologies to those who have stayed with me all this time, who have reviewed and followed the story along its old course. I really appreciate the support and what you've done for me, but the old SiC wasn't going the way I'd intended. I'm afraid this reboot will follow a darker path, allow for (what will hopefully be) more depth of character and more depth of plot (with the introduction of a new character… I'm incredibly and dorkishly excited about this btw). I'm sorry for those who love a fic full of fluff, blatant displays of affection and sentiment – this is none of the above. The plan is for a story surrounding the complexities of the mind, inklings of PTSD and insomnia; the undercurrents of something more leading to what will eventually be the formations of a relationship. I love this direction – I just hope you all will too.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

"_Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep_

_I'm tired and I want to go to bed._

_Sing me to sleep, sing me to sleep_

_And then leave me alone._

_Don't try to wake me in the morning_

_Cause I will be gone."_

_Emily Browning - Asleep_

(.:.)

Dear James,

You haven't written back in a while, I've been waiting for a reply. I understand how busy you must be; though you more than anyone save Mrs Hudson must know how long the days are becoming recently. I thought you might be interested James – they've switched me from those damned diazepines to the z-meds, Zopiclone if I recall but I've all but lost interest. Mrs Hudson bless her keeps me regular, reminds me when I forget, makes sure I throw the old ones away. I'm only on these for four weeks – the whole tolerance and dependency thing. If all else fails I'll be on Circadin in about a month's time.

Things seemed incredibly hectic over your end the last time we spoke. I have phoned but there's been no answer, I suppose it must be just short of madness over where you are if you can't speak. You always have time to talk James, I've never known you not take a call. I hope things are okay with you, you must tell me if they're not. I might be a little fragile right now my friend but I'll be damned if it stops me helping you out when you need it. You've done so much for me – well it's about bloody time I returned the favour.

Updates… yes, you always ask for those. So here we go. From one medical professional to another – things could be better. You know how it is. I'll end on a happy note; get all of this guff out of the way. Despise talking about it, but I recall you prefer hearing it now rather than later so here goes. Diazepines didn't work, the heat doesn't help. Summer's kicked in over here and for once in British history the sun doesn't seem to want to piss off. Nights are warm and I exceeded my allotted dosage almost a week into the course of the drugs. Doctors took me off them not long after that when they began to kick in during the day. Yes, yes – I know what you're probably thinking. It was stupid of me – I know, I'm a doctor I should know. You're right James- as always. But it comes to a point where you look down at those little tablets and ask yourself how much it could actually hurt – how much damage could one more _really do? _Apparently a lot. To conclude James – I'm an idiot. I'd prefer it if you didn't think less of me for it.

They've given me something for the stress, pills to take during the day. I can't remember the name – you'd think I'd be able to wouldn't you? Those got swapped out last week, I haven't gotten used to them yet. Can't remember what they're called – they're blue. That's all I need to know. They can't give me medication for the nightmares, that's a psychological thing, something they hoped the meds would fix. Therapy's been bumped up to twice a week – Camilla's nice. I told you about her last time didn't I? Lovely woman, still manages to do my head in though. Makes a good cup of tea though – I'll give her that.

Enough of this. On to the good news. I wanted you to know Harry got married the other week. Managed to make the ceremony, walked her down the aisle for the second time (what will hopefully be the last). Mary seems to be a keeper – I'm so happy for her. They went on their honeymoon over the weekend; she's still there I think. They've gone to visit Mary's family, gone to see her dad. He served like we did would you believe it - small world. Harry keeps telling me I need to get 'back in the game' – though a double date with my sister and my sister-in-law and a 'friend' of theirs sounds like my idea of hell. In all honesty I'd take Afghanistan over that any day – and that's seriously saying something.

I hope you're okay James. Mrs Hudson asks after you every now and again, wonders how you are, how the kids are, how Emma is. We both do actually. I know things are busy for you right now – I recall things being a little 'up in the air' when I read your last letter. I need you to know that I'm fine – I've got this. People fuss far too much… I've been to war for heaven's sake. I'm still the same person who held that gun all those – you know they actually took that off me? Second week into the treatment programme. They seriously need to find better bloody things to worry about.

I'm sorry, I'm ranting. I'm here, waiting patiently for your next reply. I don't go far so expect a speedy response. I hope all is well James, give my best to the wife and kids.

Regards

John.

(.:.)

John scrubbed his hand over his face, stubble rough against his palm as he carefully slipped the paper into the waiting envelope. The light in the living room had a hazy-like quality, much like the steam that billows from a freshly poured cup of coffee, lulling, warm and incredibly therapeutic. It teetered on the edge of uncomfortable, John writhing a little in his seat, material of his shirt sticking irritatingly to his skin. With shaking hands he unbuttoned a few from his neck down, relishing his new found freedom, Adam's apple bobbing slightly as he swallowed without restriction, mouth dry, the doctor reaching for the coffee he knew had grown cold around the time he'd written '_updates_'.

With his other he reached for his pen, tried to recall the address he'd come to write down about once or twice a month, thrice if he was lucky and his friend found himself with time on his hands. He muttered under his breath, scraped through the papers and the files that littered his desk, wondered vaguely how on earth he could have lost the biro so soon after putting it down. John pushed a pile of random literature litter to the side, what seemed to be an encyclopaedia hidden beneath a pile of out of date and misused takeaway menus, barely containing his relief when he found his pen seeking refuge against the gravitational pull of a wad of blue tac, though he soon found himself battling against it as though it recognised his intentions and wasn't quite ready to give it's prize up without a fight.

"Oh come on," he muttered.

It came free with a deft 'pop', John placing his mug back on the side after he'd swilled his mouth with the dull, lukewarm liquid, wincing a little at the taste. He delved further beneath the piles of papers, searching semi-frantically for the sticky note pad he recalled seeing tucked away between the pages of one book of another, possibly a dictionary, highlighted memos used to mark down pages of interest. It was a scavenger hunt at its finest, probably one of the hardest of its kind as it came with no clues and relied purely on the doctor's memory, though he'd long ago given up on putting anything in order and simply relied on his scrabbling around to find what he needed. He bit his tongue and swam through old case files, medical notes, patient files and old letters, all of which were strewn left right and centre across the desk until there was nought but a hint of mahogany left for Mrs Hudson to polish. The woman continued to insist she wasn't his housekeeper, though the siren call of dust always seemed to be able to rouse her from her flat downstairs no matter what John would say to try and discourage her. These were the only times the apartment would ever reach some sort of order and, though he'd never admit it to her, the days where that dear old lady would breach the barriers of his home and set him to work with duster and polish were some of the best days he had to recent memory. She had a habit of singing Vera Lynn whilst vacuuming the carpets, Frank Sinatra when she'd don her yellow rubber gloves and sort through the plates and mugs that would accumulate and barricade the kitchen. On better days he'd look up the songs on Youtube and they'd sing along together, doctor and landlady joining hand in hand in the middle of a clean room upon completion, his hand on her waist and hers around his neck and they'd dance to the songs that reminded her of her childhood – those that made her smile so much. Those were brighter days.

"There you are," he sighed, pulling the notes from between the pages of a medical journal.

He tugged a little too hard, swearing under his breath as he felt his elbow connect with cheap porcelain. He wasn't the man he once was, not as quick as he'd been in his twenties. Maybe back then he'd have been able to catch the mug before it'd have a chance to shatter on the floor, before it'd have a chance to scare him out of his seat or stain the carpet. But he wasn't twenty two anymore.

He heard a plate smash downstairs, felt how hard the wood of his desk was beneath the crushing pressure of the palms of his hands, noted how he'd braced himself, how fast he'd moved from his seat. In the back of his mind he thanked that twenty year old he'd stowed away back there the day he'd taken a liking to plaid and wool, grateful he still had a spring in his step. Camilla would be pleased to know the physiotherapy was paying off, though the situation itself would have her sitting with that semi-concerned look on her face that wound him up so much. He ran a hand through his hair, balanced more of his weight onto the flat of his desk to give his aching hands a rest. It was turning out to be one of those days.

"Are you alright dear?" He heard called up the corridor, footsteps frantically climbing the staircase.

"Fine," he murmured, huffing out a shaky breath, "Mrs Hudson I'm fine," he offered back a little louder.

He turned, found his landlady hovering at his front door and ringing her hands as though she was cleaning them. He smiled at her.

"Are you sure? I heard a bang-"

"I know Mrs Hudson – it was an accident. I'm sorry."

"Oh John."

Mrs Hudson was a woman of habit, something John Watson found most endearing. It made the sweet lady entirely predictable, something John had found he needed more than anything else. On a Monday she did her washing, did his too if he hadn't gotten round to it (which was the case more often than not). She had Maude around for lunch on Tuesdays, Bethany and Jessica in on a Thursday tea time where she always cooked whatever the local butcher had on offer that week. John had memorised her schedule as well as he'd come to learn her personal habits, the way she always wore gloves when doing the washing up, how she only ever used lemon washing up liquid because she didn't trust the green, the ways she cheated on cross word puzzles by making him Google the answers or how she always found a stray strand of hair to twirl whenever they watched daytime television together on Wednesdays and Fridays. And John had come to love them all, especially this one in particular.

She scurried over to him, quick as a mouse, and wrapped her arms around his waist, head resting in the crook of his shoulder, scents of lavender and powder washing over him in waves of comforting nostalgia. He smiled again fleetingly, buried his nose in her hair and offered her a quick kiss against the crown of her head in return, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and squeezing her once as he did so. Yes, her habits were as well known to him as the scars on his own body and the veins on the back of his hands, but each gentle hug or timid kiss always managed to take him by surprise.

"I'll clean it up – don't you worry."

"No, no," he sighed, smoothing out the lines either side of his eyes with rough fingertips. "I'll sort it out – my fault."

"What happened?" She muttered, tone soft though there was a hint of something else, something that made John's lip twitch. It was as though she was talking to a petulant child, a toddler that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and had been taken by surprise doing so, dropping everything in the process.

"Caught it with my elbow," he sighed, bending to pick up the shards of blue tinted ceramic, batting at her hands when she made to assist. "Shouldn't have put it so close to the edge – really do need to tidy up."

She carefully righted herself, crossing her arms over her chest. John grinned, shaking his head.

"You think so?"

"Yes Mrs Hudson I know – I'll do it tomorrow."

"Good man – not too late now John," she murmured, hand settling lightly on his shoulder. "You've got two tablets tonight dear; I've set them on the side for you."

He sighed, "What would I do without you?"

"Lord only knows."

John retired not long after his landlady had retreated back downstairs, probably to mimic his actions and pick up the shattered pieces of whatever it was she had dropped earlier. He'd never really understood why her nerves were as shot as his own, why loud noises startled her, bangs had her heart racing or smashed mugs had her dropping her own plates and/or crockery. She was a remarkable creature, a woman who'd dealt with Sherlock's random gunfire as easily as a mother would deal with the misbehaviours of her child, but when it came to things smashing she could never seem to hold her own. She was like a child in the middle of a lightning storm, fascinated by the forks but wickedly frightened of the claps of thunder that followed.

The night wasn't unusually warm, though John found himself unusually unsettled. The taste of mint sat heavily on his tongue, the air in his room thick and rough despite the window having been open for the majority of the day – despite _him _advising him otherwise. He sat perched on the edge of his simple bed, hands folded in his lap, eyes against the wall as he breathed. It was Camilla's routine, a therapy she'd stamped her name on though even he could have thought it up given five minutes and a cup of good coffee. He breathed anyway, deeply and slowly just like the doctor ordered, tried to rid himself of the thoughts and plans of the day so that (as she put it) he'd go to sleep 'a blank slate'. In her mind, if there was nothing occupying your head then there'd be nothing to dream about, nothing to wake you back up. Theoretically it was a stroke of genius, practically it was fucking useless.

John tugged off his shirt and trousers, looping his belt over the headboard before falling gently back against the mattress, closing his eyes a little as his head became encased in pillows. He found himself immersed in the familiar green glow of his digital clock, turning to check the alarm was on for tomorrow though, more than likely, he'd ignore it and put it on snooze more times than anyone would deem necessary. He lay awkwardly atop the blankets, basked himself in the comfort the infrequent breeze brought him as it washed warmly over his bare chest, curtains flickering against their rails, traffic passing in a steady stream outside the barrier of his window. To John it was like whale song, much preferring the sounds of car horns and night revellers than silence, the sort that made your ears ring as they'd struggle for something to latch on and listen to. The noises of London were his own personal lullaby, familiar and predictable and comforting in a way he could not put into words. It was the only music that could weigh down his eyes enough for them to close completely, and tonight, the good doctor found, was no different.

(.:.)

_Falling is just like flying John-_

"Sherlock!"

There was no way to tell if the name on his lips was a remnant of nightmare or his own words that sat so bitterly on his tongue, but his mouth was arid all the same. The room wasn't big enough to contain him, he couldn't breathe, couldn't move, though those sturdy four walls rose up so far and so high around him he felt cast adrift. His body was ragged, his throat acid washed and his tongue like sandpaper as he swiped it over his lips, sweat salty and sour in his mouth. It had been one of those days, and one of those days almost always turned to one of those nights. He blamed the bloody mug.

He blinked away the images of blood, bones and mobile phones, fumbled around blindly for the glass of water he'd sat next to his clock, fingers dabbing vainly at puddles of what could only be his drink spilt from his more than active sleep. It'd be something Camilla would be interested in – that he knew. He felt ragged, used up, caught somewhere between sleep and reality, didn't even know the day. The time – well that read about half past twelve, his usual waking hours whenever sleep eluded him, whenever it had better things to do than offer him the respite he knew he was so desperate for. John massaged his eyes with the heels of his palms, legs swinging heavily over the side of his mattress, toes brushing the cool carpet of the floor. It made him feel more comfortable, something he'd often talked about with Camilla, the feeling of having a hard surface beneath the rough pads of his feet, something strong and sturdy and unlikely to crumble – walls and floors only ever did that when he closed his eyes against them. No, the floor that lay beneath his feet acted as an anchor to his drifting body, tethered him to the waking world when his mind floated hazily elsewhere, a balloon caught in an updraft with its string tied to a post. It wasn't a perfect solution, but it was better than nothing.

He ran a hand deftly though his hair, noticed then the knife's edge of light that pierced his darkened room, cleaving his modest bedroom directly through its middle, the point of which teased his toes almost playfully. He shook his head, thoughts and nerves scattered, something niggling the younger man at the back of his mind, forcing him to question what lay before his eyes. _The window is closed John. The curtains aren't moving. You closed the door John – remember that. You locked it, slid the latch across didn't you? You know you did – he told you to. _

"John?"

_Fuck._

"John – are you alright?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?" he muttered, head held in his hands.

As John's eyes became accustomed to the dark he found himself drawn to a darkened mass located just in front of the door, legs crossed and shoe heels resting against the desk, long limbs blocking out areas of light, arms crossed across what John assumed to be his chest, the glisten of two eyes illuminated by the light of his bedside clock and that which leaked from the window to his left.

"Are you alright?" He asked a little more slowly, voice sterner.

"How long have you been there?" The doctor grunted back, gathering sheets around his waist.

"Long enough."

John snorted, pleased to hear him smile. It was something that, like Mrs Hudson's habits, he'd become accustomed to. To hear someone smile was the equivalent of feeling someone's heart break, to smell a thought, to touch a memory. It took time, but time was something John Watson had plenty of. Sherlock Holmes smiled about as often as John did nowadays and so when Sherlock Holmes smiled John made sure to take note and pay attention. And thus the good doctor began the process of memorising the expression, implanting it in memory, became so accustomed to evaluating every detail that sight became sound. There was the sound of the movement, the slight hitch in breathing as the process of exhalation changed. These two men didn't laugh like they used to, but a smile was a smile and that was most precious of all.

"I could have shot you, you know."

"But you didn't – did you."

There was a slight shuffle of movement as he shifted his position, the souls of two shoes coming to rest flat against the floor, the shift fluid and semi-silent, far too well practiced for John to feel it natural.

"Sherlock-"

"When did they take it off you?"

He sighed. He was far too out of practice – far too tired for all of this.

"I'm not going to even ask you how you know that."

"Then don't."

John resorted to child's play, the older man burying himself beneath his covers, turning his back on the man that had invaded his space, the man he'd found himself praying for for more nights than he cared to remember. The wall that met him, the wall that sat mere centimetres away from his nose, greeted him blankly and exuded an almost anti-warmth, seeming to suck the heat from his body yet radiate a cool calm at the same time. It was more relaxing this way, though the doctor could still feel his companion's eyes boring into his very spine, the weight of which had settled itself comfortably between his shoulder blades as though that in itself would have the power to roll him over and force him to face up to his ghost.

"I told you to keep your windows closed."

John felt the sheets tighten in his grip, bed linen wrapping around his fingers and constricting his digits to a point where he felt as though their tips would drop off. He closed his eyes.

"You did."

He sounded slightly irritable, though (like Mrs Hudson the day previous) he seemed to be stepping lightly, forcibly gentle with him. "I say it for good reason John."

"I know," he murmured.

John knew he knew, was well aware of how desperate his invitations seemed to the man who saw everything. Something as simple as leaving his window open – so subtle to those who went through life seeing nothing. But to a man cursed with an intent and incessant habit to observe all… it was a sign. It left the doctor vulnerable, left him open, turned him into a duck sitting and waiting to be plucked from its box but it was all necessary. He needed his friend, needed to know, needed to be comforted with the fact that the man that now sat in the chair at the foot of his bed was not the apparition his psychologists had almost convinced him of, but the man of flesh and blood he'd seen jump from the top of Saint Bart's in a desperate bid to save his life. For that was the person he'd held on to, back when they'd admitted him, back when he'd told people of his return, of his rebirth. Because who'd believe a shell-shocked veteran that a suicidal fraud had returned from the dead? Certainly not the local authority that'd locked him away under supervision, fearing for his sanity, fearing for his life. It had been plastered in the papers, his name, his companion's name, how far they'd both fallen for each other, how far John had left to fall before he too wound up shattered across the curb. Only when he'd given up his belief had they released him, kept stupid with pills, never again to speak a word to anyone save Mrs Hudson, his damned guardian and keeper, about the man in the coal blackened coat that drifted in and out of his life as often as the women that shared his bed.

Months at a time he'd be gone. There'd be months where he'd stay, and his landlady would stand at the door and cry when the familiar sound of violin music would drift down the stairway to reach her fading ears, and she'd embrace him just as tightly every time he returned, bring her gifts from far off countries, tell her tales of adventures John could only dream and/or speculate about. It was these relics; these mementos from his travels that kept the good doctor in a sane mind, lined up as they were on the mantel piece beside the skull John hadn't had the heart to throw away. They were physical signs, talismans of a reality only a handful of people shared. But it meant that he was alive, that he was real to more people than just him, and that kept him stable, even when, as soon as he stepped outside and crossed that imaginary threshold, he had to return to playing to part of the detective's widow, the man the great Sherlock Holmes lied to and left behind.

The open window was an invite, a sign to say 'I still believe', something the ex-detective had obviously read as a sign that John had a blatant disregard for his own safety.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" The answer was almost immediate.

John swallowed, tried to bring some dampness back to his barren mouth, "Stay – please?"

The silence that followed seemed to stretch on for an eternity. It was a selfish desire, something that John would have never normally asked for, but he was a desperate man and desperate men tended to desperate things. He knew that better than anyone. Sherlock had a job to do, ghosting through life, over boarders, through countries like a wraith in a bid to catch and rid the world of the dregs of Moriarty, the loose ends he'd left behind after his most sudden of departures. The police had never found his body, nor had they tracked down any of the men that had worked for him. And that had been the ex-detective's cue – his calling so to speak. And John had spent the past two years watching and waiting as papers printed headlines revealing that another murder had taken place, that another man had turned himself in, that another offshore account had been discovered and so on and so on, the veteran doctor reading between the lines of every article, relevant or not, to try and find Sherlock's stamp, the mark that would reveal unto John's prying eyes that he'd been there, that it was his doing.

"You know I can't John – I'm sorry."

There was a tenuous undercurrent to the usual steadiness of his voice, something that hinted of emotions he didn't dare express. It wasn't his thing – sharing. Nor had it been John's, but such beliefs had been drugged out of him a long time ago. John knew how hard it was for him, knew how difficult it must have been to disappear. London was his home as well as his playground, his anchor. 221b was his sanctuary, fate just didn't allow him the time to utilise it.

John swallowed hard. "Sherlock – please. Just so I know."

The door clicked shut, the light snuffed out like that of a candle.

"Alright John."

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**I lied. There will be fluff. I do apologise for starting off on such a sombre note, I am in the creative process of writing Chapter Two and I assure you it's ten times brighter.**


	2. Chapter Two: Tea and Toast

**Author's Note**

**Boom! New character. Man I love rewrites. **

**I'm sorry about – well everything. The other version was happy to a certain extent. Oh look, Sherlock being our lovable rouge. Oh look, John pandering to his whims and being our sweet little hedgehog in his jumpers and WRONG! It was all so wrong! I see that know, I've seen the light. Didn't make sense – sentiment. Happiness. Frivolity. I'm not one for the whole dependency thing. John Watson is a magnificent character. He is strong, loyal and magnificently intelligent (by regular people standards) but he was not **_**dependant **_**on Sherlock. They were simply two autonomous beings drawn together by the same sense of gravity. It is this gravity that I want to explore; London, the love of Mrs Hudson, 221b, guns for goodness sake! And that gravity still remains the same, but after the Fall that dynamic changed. That is what I want to delve into. Please – allow me that and will be forever grateful. **

**I just re-watched the Great game so I am in an incredibly peculiar mood. I do apologise most profusely. Reviews would, as always, be forever welcome****.**

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**Chapter One**

"_And it's peaceful in the deep,_

_A Cathedral where you cannot breathe._

_No need to pray, no need to speak._

_Now I am under oh."_

_Florence and the Machine – Never Let Me Go_

(.:.)

He knew before he'd even opened his eyes that he was gone.

It was a game they shared, a cat and mouse chase that John would always enter despite him knowing it'd end in his loss. It was the way of his world, to close his eyes against a memory and wake to a reality he hadn't quite yet accepted. He lay in bed for a little while, eyes roaming the patterns and pit marks in the ceiling, noting where dust had collected, where webs flickered in the shadows of his cage's four corners in need of sweeping away. He'd promised Mrs Hudson he'd get on that, but there were worse days to come yet and that could wait until then.

"Come on then," he muttered to himself, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the backs of his hands.

The morning proceeded as usual, the brushing of teeth, cup of tea over the morning paper, five tablets to take to get him through the coming day, two of which he hadn't even the slightest idea what they did, just that Mrs Hudson bless her heart had set them out for him and he didn't have it in him to question her. She was right nine times out of ten, and that was enough for him. Glass of orange juice with a slice of toast, shower, get dressed, pack kit, clean up last night's nightstand spillage and clear away any broken glass. The usual morning, however, had an unexpected twist, a hint so subtle one would miss it if you weren't truly looking for it, if you hadn't taken the time to really memorise and understand the life of one John Hamish Watson. For the doctor ghosted about the apartment with a smile on his face, felt no ill will towards the pills he downed with his drink, didn't grumble over the price of bread and milk or the stories that pissed him off in the papers. For, as he glided around the flat, he found his auto-pilot somewhat disengaged. Sure, the usual jobs of the morning got done, the paper, the toast, the shower and the dressing but in between that he found himself seeking the remnants of his night's visitor, of the ghost that haunted both his waking hours and his dreams. For Sherlock, highly aware of his friend's state of mind, would always leave behind remnants – traces of his existence for the older man to find upon waking, a used cigarette here, a mug of cold coffee there and so on and so on. Each one John found would drag an ounce of his old self back from the depths, and John would find himself flicking through case files, find himself daring to touch the violin that lay just beneath the mantel or, on better days, actually venture inside his bedroom. This was one of those days, and that meant John Watson was in a very good mood indeed.

"_You've seen this all before,_

_Life left on the shore._

_We're smiling all the same,_

_You sail away again."_

_Ellie Goulding – Dead in the Water_

"He came back – didn't he."

The air was warm, thick, not unlike that that clogged his room. But it was clearer, crisper, heavier in a way that didn't want to make him bathe in a bath of ice, a feeling that relaxed him instead of managing to drive him up the wall. The scent of chlorine was heady, lulled him into a sense of security he'd created as a child. To swim was to fly; only this type of flying did not end with a fall. There was no permanent destination, just hour upon hour of endless weightlessness that rejuvenated the body and rested the mind, no need to think, just float.

"How could you tell?" He smiled, sliding his change across the desk.

"I can always tell," she grinned, wrapping her arms around his, chin resting on his shoulder. "You're so predictable John, honestly-"

"Ah," he scoffed, nodding his thanks to the server at the desk as he received his ticket, tucking it into the folds of his wallet, "you sound _just _like him. I'd stop that if I were you."

"It's nice to see you happy John – that's all."

"Oh come on now Emily," he laughed, disentangling himself from his companion, bending down to shoulder his bag, "I'm not _that _bad… I can't be – not all the time."

John crossed his arms, the girl mimicking a face he didn't want to admit looked exactly like him. A child without a dummy, a chimpanzee who'd had its banana robbed – that was the look and she had it down perfectly. It actually worried him a little how well she'd gotten him down, made him wonder how often he pulled that face for her to pick up on it so… expertly.

"Are you gonna' stop that or-"

"Why? Is it off-putting?"

"Incredibly."

"Then mission accomplished," she beamed, sliding her ticket into her jacket pocket. "I'll meet you in there John."

He leant gently back against the rim of the community centre's front desk, watched the young woman disappear through the swing door to the women's changing rooms in a flurry of dark hair and bright eyes, just missing getting smacked in the face as she called out a swift "don't take too long" before melting back through the narrow crack. He shook his head, digging in his jeans pocket for a spare twenty pence for the lockers.

"Excuse me? Sir?"

He turned, "Yeah?"

"Your daughter forgot this," the woman behind the desk smiled, though it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"She's not my – oh never mind," he sighed, cupping his palm for the change in her hand.

It meant she didn't have a twenty pence for her locker, thus meaning he'd have to awkwardly stand at the door to the changing rooms and shout for her loud enough so that the whole pool would know their business. She wouldn't help the situation too, make him shout at the top of his lungs and then miraculously appear a few cubicles down with a look of mock innocence on her face, throw a towel at him when he'd refuse to smile – that sort of thing. He'd smile all the same; it was the sort of reaction she made sure she elicited from him through any means necessary. At the end of the day, Emily Knight may not have been his daughter, but she bloody well-acted like it.

He sighed, accepting his fate. The doctor wandered gradually over to the swinging door, sneaking a hesitant peak through the crack every time it rocked forwards on its unsteady hinges. He leant a hand against the door frame, clearing his throat more times than anyone would deem necessary. He loved Emily dearly, she'd grown on him like a pimple, but people only ever came to two assumptions whenever they were seen in each other's company. Either John was her father, or Emily had a thing for older men, neither of which was true though she never had actually proven the latter false. That, on slow days, had often given the good doctor food for thought.

"Erm – Em? Emily? You er – forgot your change at the desk. You need twenty pence for the locker –Em? Emily? Are you even listening to me?"

Now John had never suffered a heart attack before. He'd come close in the past of course, what with being strapped into a bomb and all, but he'd never actually really felt as though he was about to have one. He valued himself as a fairly fit individual, granted he may have eaten more than his fair share of English breakfasts but other than that he ate fairly well, exercised… enough. But he clutched his chest all the same as he threw himself back, one hand grasping his heart, the other clawing at his eyes as he tried to avert his gaze by popping his eye balls out into the palm of his hand.

"Emily – for heaven's sake!"

"Oh calm down you old sod! They're just-"

"Yes I know what they – that's the problem. Just – take the money and – oh God! I'll see you in there."

Yes, so there were those two assumptions. John retreated to the sanctity of the male changing area, burying himself in plans of the day and his medical schedule whilst trying not to think of – she was half his age for goodness sake. She wasn't like that – their relationship was nothing like that. She was his friend, his sister. Sister was better than daughter or lover, though the dark haired versus greying blonde didn't particularly add up. Why a forty something year old and a young spritely thing like her would hang out anyway was beyond him, related or not, though she'd somehow appeared at just the right time to ease his pain and fill some sort of un-fillable gap, more like a placebo than and actual effective drug. But her companionship, her light-heartedness, her passion for curiosities had rubbed off on him not too long ago when he'd been at his most impressionable, and she hadn't left him since.

There was something about the sound of the pad of naked feet against tiles that John had come to love. He associated it with her, his little raven haired friend, and therefore it had become a sound he only ever heard when he was in high spirits. Yes, he may have been carrying out the commands of his therapists in the very beginning, but swimming had become something he truly relished for all of the above reasons, the weightlessness, the smells, spending time with the university kid with the candy coloured lips and the bright eyes. Emily was good company, as was the cool warmth of the water (as odd as that may sound).

"Took your time didn't you," she irked, nudging an elbow in his ribs as she materialised at his side.

"I'm sorry," he said mockingly, "I was a little _busy_."

She frowned, "it was the foot thing again – wasn't it."

"Just swim Em - before I push you in."

It was an empty threat; he tended to end up chucking her in regardless of how far she tested him. She was a little, slight thing, bird-like in appearance though he'd seen her floor her fair share of men, strong enough to hit, smart enough to know where. She stuck her tongue out at him and took off down the edge of the pool, lifeguards whistling after her in short bursts, ear splitting screams to those who hadn't covered their ears in time. The water erupted around her body as she cannonballed into the deep end, a white frothing crater marking her entrance, John timing mentally the amount of time she stayed beneath the surface; almost sure she was making for the bottom before she even thought about coming back up for a breath.

"You're and idiot, do you know that?" he sighed, carefully settling himself on the side. "You're going to get us chucked out. I didn't spend five quid for five bloody minutes."

"Ah," she spluttered, dragging a hand through her slick hair, water streaming down her face, "there's the John Watson I know. Complaining again are we?"

He didn't grace her with a response, simply allowed himself to slide gently off the pool's edge, hard concrete making way for a delightful spread of warmth, the echoing chaos of the public pool silenced in a world where the only sounds to be heard were those of the waves as they lapped at your eardrums or the beat of your own blood in your head. John allowed himself to fall, arms crossed across his chest in a coffin-like embrace, hands clasped against his shoulders, legs straight, eyes closed against the glittering lights that fractured themselves through the blue of the water. His nose twitched slightly as his toes connected with the bottom of the pool, felt his ears pop under the pressure, chest tight, lungs burning. But the doctor remained there nonetheless, opening his eyes at his brand new world, a world he never got tired of. He tilted his head towards his dappled sky, saw legs and arms and bodies from a different perspective, watched them fly high above his head. It was a miraculous thing, almost like a dream in a waking yet distorted reality.

Emily swam down to him from above, arms at her sides, legs together as she shot through the water, a mermaid minus her tail. She settled herself in front of him, face blurred though he knew every centimetre of it, had it saved to long term memory. She was all blue eyes and brown hair, a halo of which had begun to collect around her head as though gravity could no longer decide what it wanted to do. She smiled, blowing a stream of bubbles into his face, snorting out a few larger ones when he crumpled himself up against the ticklish feeling. It was time to rise, he was steadily getting lightheaded and did not fancy passing out beneath tonnes of water anytime soon.

Resurfacing was a lot like rebirth, he'd found that out his third week in to his fitness regime. Camilla said 'a fit body breeds a fit mind' but he'd never really paid much attention to her, though after she'd made him her first cup of tea he'd actually decided to take on board some of what she said for, as he put it, 'anyone who makes a cup of tea that good has to know a thing or two worth saying'. John gasped for air greedily, wiping his hand across his face to rid it of water, eyes stinging slightly from the chlorine. She wasn't long after him, splashing him once (entirely on purpose) as she broke the surface a metre or so away from him, looking a lot like the Grudge from beneath her copious amounts of hair.

"So," she sighed, parting her hair, "are we gonna' swim or are you just gonna' drown yourself every time I let you out of my sight?"

"I'm not going to race you if that's what you mean," he grumbled, settling himself against the side.

"Because you know I'd win – right?"

He scoffed, "Oh Em don't kid yourself."

"Count of three?"

"Oh God yes."

"One, two, thr-"

It was safe to say the doctor lost, by a good distance I might add. John was just short of needing CPR by the time he reached their imagined finish line, a gleaming horizon that hadn't seemed too far away from their starting point but at the halfway mark had seemed as far away as Nepal. But he made it, limping in a few minutes behind, collapsing into the enveloping warmth of the shallow end of the pool amongst the toddlers and their bemused parents who looked upon him and his laughing companion with a sense of genuine unease.

"Have I killed you?"

"Emily, in all honestly, I think you've come the closest," he breathed, clutching his chest for the second time that day. "Let's agree never to do that again."

"_Now the waves they drag you down_

_Carry you to broken ground._

_Though I find you in the sand_

_Wipe you clean with dirty hands._

_So goddamn this boiling space_

_The Spanish Sahara, the place that you'd wanna'_

_Leave the horror here."_

_Fouls – Spanish Sahara._

She followed him home like a lost puppy, not that he minded. He'd begun to accept her company in his little, dark 221b world, a place that had long been bereft of the warmth of another body, the sound of another's laughter. Mrs Hudson didn't come up very often, John preferred to spend time with her downstairs, and Emily – well she hadn't dared step a foot over the threshold until John had given her the 'A-Okay'. She'd been hesitant, awestruck, seeming honoured to be allowed to enter the world where it had all gone down, treading in the footsteps of the great Sherlock Holmes. She'd ran her fingers over the fabric of his chair, over the mantle, the skull, the coffee rings that marked the wood of various items of furniture around the house, fingertips always coming away caked in dust. But the girl hadn't minded, and John had watched her in a subdued sort of fascination as she'd explored what he often took for granted. After two months of her reminding him to take his pills, two months of companionship, coffee breaks, her allowing him to aid her in her studies, library trips, days out – well she'd been allowed to sit in the chair. His mug experienced the feel of another's lips against its rim, his robe put to good use when she'd needed to shower – her own bathroom having needed furnishing back home. Things that were once dead had begun to come alive, objects of sentimental value feeling the warmth of another's being once again. And then he came back.

John twisted his keys in the door, felt her presence at his back. He laughed lightly as he pushed forward, wiping his feet against the mat in the hall before he turned to face her.

"Would you like to come in for some tea Em?"

"What _possibly _gave you that idea?" she beamed.

Mrs Hudson loved Emily, fussed over her like a cat and clucked around her like a mother hen. All other women she treated differently, held them at arm's length, questioned them on their intentions, their lives, all manner of things John would cringe at, forcing him to create some daft excuse in order to get himself out of the room. She was a mother at heart and she'd adopted John Watson as her child and, in the eyes of a protective parent, no woman was ever good enough for him. But Emily – she was different. The girl seemed to have no agenda, brought pasties and pastries around for the older woman to try, even visited her when John was out elsewhere, either at therapy or the hospital. They'd taken to each other like a moth would a flame, discussing shows on television, Emily helping Mrs Hudson with her crossword and Sudoku puzzles when John couldn't seem to find the answers on Google. And unlike John's other women, unlike Sarah and Rebecca and Pat, Mrs Hudson had deemed the younger woman good enough to keep John's company and that was that.

"Emily dear – how are your studies going? I don't miss it myself – all that note taking. Would you like another biscuit?"

She caught John's eye an grimaced making him snort his tea, Emily graciously accepting her eighth biscuit from the swiftly emptying plate though they both knew it wouldn't be long before the dear landlady filled it back up to bursting point again.

"Oh do control yourself John – why do you have to make such a mess?"

"I'm sorry Mrs Hudson," he muttered, wiping his face with the sleeve of his jumper, the landlady leaning over and smacking his wrist for it. Emily winked at him.

"They're going great thank you – I'm currently looking into the complexities of the war in Afghanistan. It's all _very _interesting."

John cocked and eyebrow but couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the newspaper that sat propped open on his crossed legs, sipping once at the warmth of his fresh brew of tea, fingers scrabbling against the table for the half eaten Jammy Dodger he'd placed there not a minute ago. He peaked over the top of the sports section and glanced quickly across at the girl to his left, a Custard Cream in one hand and, beneath the table, that very same crescent moon of jam and biscuit he'd found he'd misplaced.

"-such a funny thing to study dear. Don't really understand it myself. Everyone seems to be bombing everyone else – it's not really very nice now-"

"Er – Mrs Hudson?" John piped up, cutting her off mid-sentence, though the doctor hadn't a clue what the subject of her tirade had been, just that it hadn't made much sense to anyone other than herself.

"Yes John?" She called over her shoulder, flipped eggs in the pan.

He stifled a giggle, Emily kicking him under the table the moment she caught sight of the glint in his eyes, the way his lip twitched with a barely restrained smirk.

"Emily would like another biscuit – she's too shy to ask. Oh! I bought in some Battenberg the other day, I put it in the pantry. Perhaps we should crack that out?"

The landlady placed down her oven gloves on the side and made off down the corridor, muttering something or other about what a fantastic idea that was and how she was such a mad hostess for not breaking out the cake. It didn't seem to matter that they had eggs cooking steadily on the hob nor toast in the toaster ready to be popped, bacon sizzling in the pan on the side filling the downstairs flat with the most delightful of aromas. Mrs Hudson was a hostess to beat all other hostesses, and if you could fit through the door on your departure she'd see herself as nothing short of a failure for not having fed you up enough.

"You bastard," she groaned, head falling against her crossed arms in a flurry of damp, dark hair. "When will it end?"

"It doesn't," John sighed, licking his thumb and forefinger nonchalantly as he flicked the page over, swiftly shutting and folding the paper on the side as he was greeted with relationship ads.

"Then why _elongate_ what is already a chore?"

"I'd make the most of it Em – just think of all that thick, sugar coated marzipan and-"

She threw a slice of toast at him, so fast he barely had enough time to react and duck. It hit the floor and erupted in a sea of crumbs, skidding across the floor to come to a halt at a door not too far away from where they were seated. John reached forward and spooned another sugar into his tea, clinking the spoon purposefully against the sides of the fine china.

"Why do you hate me?"

He snorted, "Don't be so dramatic."

"I'm going to be sick John," she moaned into the crook of her arm, running a hand through her tangled hair. "How can anyone seriously have this many biscuits? It's ludicrous!"

The doctor heaved himself up from his seat, taking instead to stir the eggs in their pan when it became apparent his landlady had been lost to the clutches of her overly full pantry. He could hear her scrabbling in there; hear her swear under her breath when she thought she was out of earshot, a crack of something as it hit the floor, a soft thump as she batted it to the side with her foot.

"She's the pride of Britain," she smiled over his shoulder, rapping her quickly on the back of her head with an egg caked spoon, "the day she runs out of biscuits will be a day I personally don't want to live to see."

"I won't bloody see tomorrow at his rate," she sighed, pulling out her chair, wood scraping against the tiles. "The toast's popped. I'll butter it – looks as though she'll be a while."

"What happened to being sick?" he chuckled, adding a little pepper into the mix.

"It's toast for God's sake – can eat toast till the cows come home."

"That's my girl," he smiled, tucking her under his arm as she buttered the bread laboriously, planting a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Not too much now – I don't want you having a heart attack."

"Speak for yourself old man," she grinned, wiping butter along the length of his nose with a gentle swipe of her fingertip, John scowling at her from beneath his lashes as he attempted to survey the damage. "I'm not the one who needs to worry about my cholesterol."

It turns out none of them seemed to be worrying about their cholesterol. Through joint effort their small gang had created themselves a miniature feast of all the wrong types of fats, eggs and bacon painting toast pink, white and yellow, yolks spilling here there and everywhere, round after round of Emily's dripping slices replacing those that had been hastily munched through. At one of the doctor's many rest periods he found himself surveying the situation, hands clasped against his distended stomach, finding himself in a phase of pure and complete contentment. Mrs Hudson was in the process of brewing their third pot of tea, Emily reminding him of a raven haired hamster as she stuffed toast and scrambled eggs into her cheeks as though she was saving it for later. He himself felt warm and entirely perfect, comfortable and satisfied with life as it was at that moment in time. Granted it was nothing more than a snapshot of what had turned out to be a rather turbulent existence, but it was flawless all the same.

On his second and a half helping of eggs and toast he found himself pausing, hands hovering over the spoon to the pot of fluffy goodness, feeling eyes on his face. He noted Emily in his peripheral, attentions entirely caught up in the complexities of a Sudoku puzzle Mrs H had failed to finish, lips coated with ketchup, fingers of her free hand fiddling with a biro as she expertly passed it through her fingers. John's eyes flicked up and caught two pairs of glassy brown, the look on her face softening.

"He came back – didn't he dear?"

John shrugged, retreating to his side of the table. He heard the pen connect quietly with the table, her eyes on him though they never remained there for long. She knew it was something he could feel, even Camilla knew. People's eyes on him always sent shivers down his spine, made the hairs on the nape of his neck rise. It always had, had saved his life more times than one. But it also meant that soft stares and withering glances didn't go unnoticed and sometimes it seemed the donor would have preferred it otherwise.

"It's never for long enough though is it Mrs H?"

She dabbed at her lips with a dish cloth, folding it quickly in her surprisingly nimble hands and setting it on her lap.

"I suppose not no… but it's better than no time at all isn't it John?"

_Ah – there was the pride of Britain with her pearls of wisdom._

"When you're right you're right," he offered back dryly, sinking his teeth into his toast. "I just wish-"

"I know dear," she cut in, "So do I."

John didn't see his changes in mood as so strikingly obvious, but they'd been picked up on relatively quickly by the people he associated himself with most often. They were however, two of the most observant creatures he'd ever had the pleasure to share company with, save Sherlock of course. Emily and Marie saw things most others failed to, things on a human level that people, even he, so often overlooked. They noticed (more than likely commented) on his hair whenever it'd change even the slightest, if he'd changed his toothpaste or forget to use mouthwash, when he was in one of those moods where he felt as though he needed to see everything again one more time, watch his favourite film, visit his favourite places, or those days where he didn't want to see anything, hole himself up in the flat, consume nothing but tea and tablets until the sun would rise the day after. They recalled things like that – as though there was nothing more important to them in their lives than tracking each and every detail of his. But he was thankful, for it meant he didn't have to keep tabs on himself. If he slipped up, he more often than not had one of his two pillars there to catch him.

"Oh John! I almost forgot," she chuckled, beckoning at her adopted family to pass her their empty plates.

"Yes?"

"Your sister rang dear she-"

"Really?" John frowned, stacking the cutlery for her. "Why didn't she sp-"

"You were swimming dear," Marie smiled, dampening the corner of a cloth before dabbing at the corner of Emily's mouth. "You have ketchup everywhere dear – honestly it's any wonder – your sister is having such a wonderful time with Margaret dear. Such a lovely woman. You know the ones down the road have just bought-"

"Mary, Mrs Hudson – her name is Mary," John smiled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Yes well – such a wonderful time," she continued to mutter, collecting up the contents of the table in one fell swoop before dumping it with a clatter into the waiting embrace of the sink.

John made towards the door, hand ruffling Emily's damp hair as he went, girl grumbling and muttering curses under her breath just loud enough for him to hear, but filth that'd go unheard by the landlady currently emptying the rest of the contents of a bottle of Fairy liquid into the raging waters of the tap.

"Did she say anything Mrs Hudson – if you can remember?" he added with a small smirk.

Her sudsy hands fluttered at him, the furrow of her brow more a sign of mock irritation than actual ill will towards the good doctor.

"Something about a case John – haven't been on one of those in a while."

John sighed, body leaning casually against the doorframe. "There are reasons for that," he murmured, running a hand idly though his hair. "Did she say what exactly?"

The interest sparked in his voice did not go uncaught by the two incredibly perceptive women in the room, thus Mrs Hudson ploughed on regardless, Emily listening attentively, chin resting against her clasped hands.

"I'm not sure John – she left a voicemail on your phone when – John? John?"

The doctor was already halfway up the stairs when the sweet landlady eventually realised she was no longer talking to a listening audience, Emily's head reburied as it was the in her Sudoku puzzle, John's feet thumping steadily up the stairs over her head as he made his way towards the answer machine. She sighed, a small smile playing across her lips as she returned herself to her chores, scrubbing mindlessly at egg yolk and bacon fat as she contemplated life in general, the price of bread, the warmness of the weather outside her window and whether or not she needed to restock the pantry with cake in case of visitors the coming week. She sung under her breath as she stacked the plates, Emily pitching in with the chorus of Vera Lynn's White Cliffs of Dover, pausing every now and again to wipe the work surface or dry the cutlery, finding herself (for once) quite satisfied with the mood of her tenant upstairs.

"If I can remember," she muttered with a smile, putting a little extra elbow grease into polishing one particular silver spoon. "The nerve of that man."

"Did you say something Mrs Hudson?" Emily piped up from somewhere at her back, girl never taking her eyes away from the biro in her hand nor the small black numbers she scribbled against the rough paper.

"Nothing dear," she murmured, folding the towel neatly on the countertop, a soft breath huffing delicately from between her lips. "I'll get some more biscuits shall I?"

* * *

**Author's Note**

**I have just realised that this version has a little ( a lot ) less Sherlock than the last. I do apologise! He will be back, he is a ghostly little thing, but I do promise a reappearance sometime soon. I just want to say how much I've loved writing Emily as a character. She is (surprisingly to some of you) somewhat canon – so I shall leave you with that knowledge. **

**Reviews, comments, criticisms and improvements ( AS ALWAYS ) are most welcome and incredibly appreciated. **


	3. Chapter Three: Oh To Be Compromised

**Author's Note**

**I know it's against social convention to be excited about your own work but – well this is just where things get set into motion. There is nothing more exciting than that… poking a ball and watching it roll. This chapter is the poke, the prodding of the ball with a stick to get everything started. And I bloody love it.**

* * *

**Chapter One**

"_Seems everything that goes around_

_Come, comes around here_

_Seems everything that stays here somehow_

_Gets me down again."_

_- Ben Howard – Everything. _

_You have two new messages. Message One._

"Hello – hello John? Hi John its Molly. I was just wondering if you'd heard anything from-"

_Message deleted. Message Two._

"Oh God – how do you – Damn. Harry… Harry? I've turned the fucking thing on already – John? Oh John! Why haven't you picked the bloody phone up? You better not be out cradle snatching with that poor little student friend of yours – honestly! God it's so hot here; I'm red – like literally red and we've only been here a day or two. I met Mary's dad – made me shit my pants! I miss you Johnny boy – really I do. I hope you're well and back to work – oh – talking about work. Google Mimi's dance studio or whatever it is you do – big fire. Sounds like your type of thing. Need to get back in the game John! Love you little brother – I really do. Call me when you get the chance. Stay safe."

_Message deleted. End of messages. _

John stared at the phone as though it had bitten his fingers, brow furrowed, hands clasped in a manner he'd picked up somewhere along the way – good doctor long ago forgetting from who, when or where. A small smile threatened to break his pensive reverie, a small bubble of good humour at the antics of his sister and his sister-in-law (what an odd thing to say) – the only two people on the planet more inept at technology than he. His mind wandered idly over the useless sentimental information, plucking absently at the bits he'd need, unsure as to whether or not he really wanted them. Fires were good – he'd handled his fair share of fires since Sherlock had left. They were straightforward, messy things; left interesting crime scenes where the lack of evidence _was _the evidence, had even gotten around to liking the smell of the scene of the crime. Now if that said anything about his sanity then – well that just didn't bare thinking about.

"Cradle snatching?"

John turned, heart fluttering a little in surprise, Emily's voice popping his little bubble of afterthought like a pin. She leant lazily against the door, hair tucked behind her one ear, biro still continuing to flick a course through her nimble fingers as she observed him, watched him, absorbed him. She was all too familiar – annoyingly so at times. In the past, he'd often found himself pondering on a slow day whether or not he kept her around because of that physical familiarity, the dark hair and the blue eyes – the odd quirk of the lip or the way in which she held herself. He didn't like having those thoughts – found them oddly shallow and unnerving, though they plagued him all the same before the pills would kick in and force his eyes closed. He knew why she stayed with him, why he sought her company; they were friends. It was just – slow says were slow days.

"I er-"

She quirked an eyebrow and smiled, "poor little student friend?"

He sighed, "Oh yes alright."

He beckoned her in with a deft wave of his hand, girl seeming highly unsure over whether or not she would actually be allowed to step a foot onto such sacred ground, even doing so with permission she seemed to take her time, treading lightly in the footsteps of the man that had used to pace the very same stretch of floorboard. She perched gingerly on the arm of his chair, fingers plucking woollen bobbles from John's jumper as his attentions returned to the phone.

"Are you going to-"

"I don't know," he murmured into his fingertips, hands returning to their usual clasped position. "I don't know if I can."

"Do you want to?" She probed, even more quietly.

John considered the question this time before answering, mind trying in vain to weigh up the decision. He hadn't done a case in a long, _long _time, let alone arson (of course it'd have to be arson else Harry wouldn't have bothered mentioning it surely?) Sure he'd had his fair few thefts and missing persons and such, breezed through them now problem with barely an ounce of his usual soul or passion but this? This was turning out to be a proper case – something that'd involve flying across the globe to investigate something that had the possibility of turning into nothing. Yes he had the funding – money tended to accumulate like that when you very rarely left the building…

"I don't know."

"Why?"

He looked at her then, properly this time, studying her. He didn't like reading people – that had always been _his _thing… never John's. All those questions, the ones that plagued and pestered him on his slow days began to resurface, the why's and but's and if's and such like that buzzed at the back of his mind like flies in the heat. Who was she really? What did he _really _know about her save the fact she enjoyed toast and tea more than anyone he'd ever met or studied complex topics at university that went above his head let alone that of a twenty-something year old immature enough to still cannonball into the deep end of a swimming pool? Emily Knight, the girl with the dark hair and piercing blue eyes… the girl who'd appeared at the most opportune of moments to help him pick his life up, the girl who now seemed to be trying to encourage him to take a case on the other side of the world.

John pinched the bridge of his nose between worn thumb and forefinger, deciding that it probably was not the best time to be asking so many questions when the object of such was perched right next to him like an owl on his shoulder. He leant back in his chair and clasped his hands over his still distended stomach, deciding then and there that he'd think about it – that there were more pressing matters at hand like Jeremy Kyle on television, simple people with their simple problems – far more straightforward than his own for that matter anyway.

(.:.)

Dear James,

You haven't replied – I do hope everything is alright, I've tried calling but things seem to be going straight through to the answer machine.

I think I'm becoming obsessively paranoid – which is bloody annoying. My doubts are getting replaced by new doubts which are then replaced by this unhealthy suspicion of everyone and everything I come into contact with on a daily basis. And I can't stop bleedin' asking the question 'why?' Why is she here, why did he say that, why is this happening… its madness. James I'm losing my mind here. Christ I think I need a holiday.

Harry phoned – they're both having a lovely time. Might go and visit her actually… need a break. Funnily enough there's something come up, something far more interesting than a bloody missing cat (Lord only knows I've had enough of those). Emily has talked me around, I've had time to think about this and I really do think I need to get back in the game. You said yourself once James – a long time ago I might add, that if it's a risk worth taking take it. So I'm going to.

I know you enjoy the fact by fact breakdown of my little cases so here we go. From what I've gathered it's an arson attack on a building – Mimi's School of Dance in Phoenix. Thankfully that's a stone's throw away from where my sister's staying so it's all worked out rather nicely. As far as I'm aware police reports have said that no one was injured in the fire save one or two servicemen and that it was put out in the early hours of the morning on the 17th. Funny thing is all CCTV tapes have disappeared from the immediate area leading police to treat the case as suspicious. I personally have no idea how that could have happened – well I guess that's first on the list to figure out then isn't it?

He'd love this wouldn't he… don't you think? Right up his street. He always hated arsons, found them dull. But this one – there's something not quite right about this one? Who would care enough to sweep an area of surveillance after burning down a ballet studio? We're not just talking about one corner shop camera here either – we're talking every street corner, every private residence, every street camera… it's almost entering the realms of impossibility.

I digress. Hopefully all is well with you – I get concerned when I don't hear back from you. All my best to the family as per usual James.

Regards

John.

(.:.)

This was bad – very bad indeed.

His fingers tapped lazily against the keys, in no rush to discover his most recent updates, every post leading him closer and closer to a world he did not want him a part of. The comments were coming thick and fast, even though his partner was still a 'disgrace' in the eyes of the general public, though here their exploits still seemed to run rampant through the everyday conversation of the business men and women who had the time and the opportunities to busy themselves with the activities of two men in London, a million miles away in terms of life and time. But he found himself checking anyway, tormenting himself with the fresh information – his last letter sitting idly at the side of his desktop, loopy scrawl illuminated in the soft light of the screen.

A knock on the door - he hadn't heard them coming, odd considering how well acquainted he was to their movements. He flicked the switch at the side of the computer just quick enough to turn the screen black before she popped her head round the door, two bright eyes peeking through a mess of darkened hair, a face that showed her indecision as to whether or not she should intrude. She'd very rarely join him in his office, a place so cluttered with his own past and memories that he was lead to believe it reminded her only of the fact that she had very few to call her own. Therefore, he realised, there was something on her mind as he knew, more than anyone, she would only every interrupt if it was of the utmost importance.

"Come in, "he beckoned, running a hand tiredly though his hair.

She seemed to release the hand of someone and slid around the door without opening it any more than it already was, managing to drift over to his side and place herself cross-legged on the floor at his feet in nought but a breath of air. She wasn't alone, the shadow of the doorway now blocked by the lithe, tall presence of his son – though he made no move to enter any further, content to remain near the exist.

"How can I help you both?" He murmured, running his fingers through the soft locks of her short hair, cupping her face slightly as she settled herself, redirecting her gaze to hold his own.

"You've got mail," she beamed, soft lips resting against the open palm of his hand, pulling an envelope from the pocket of her jacket. "Is it from John?"

His eyes flickered over to his son having taken the leap and entered the office fully, hand now resting against his shoulder tentatively. He noticed his child's gaze fall momentarily on the flashing light of the computer monitor before returning to the envelope now clasped in his hands, lips forming one long thing line of knowing.

"Something you didn't want us to see?"

"Nothing that you don't already know," he hit back, somewhat surprised at how tired his voice sounded - even to him.

"Are you going to open it then?"

John's letters to him when no secret in his household – though this time he found himself pausing. The frown on his son's face deepened though her eyes remained bright and hopeful, her chin resting against his knee as he continued to card his fingers through her hair, not allowing himself to look at her for too long lest he crack. She had that effect on people and she knew it – though the affect wasn't always intentional.

His fingers shook slightly as he slid them under the fold, the soft tear of the paper seeming to tear through their bubble of family intimacy far more violently than he had originally anticipated. It smelt of John – smelt like coffee and musty apartments and jumpers that didn't fit in with the seasons, a page of John's familiar handwriting following as he settled the sheet in his lap and read, eyes devouring the words as he gorged himself on the information, the grip his son had on his shoulder steadily strengthening as every moment passed between them in silence, her humming the only sound to really break the weight of it save that of the paper shivering in his hands.

"Carlisle?" he murmured at his back, the feeling on his shoulder an almost overpowering sensation – his grip borderline painful.

He leant back in his chair, thumb roughly rubbing the underside of his chin as he pondered their predicament – trying in vain to keep the panic from marring the carefully constructed mask of his usual calm demeanour. He could feel Edward's presence ever weighing at the forefront of his mind, gently probing, a tickle behind his eyes he'd long ago become accustomed to. Alice made a strange little noise near his knee as his hand came to a standstill against the back of her head, cradling her against his knee, eyes concerned. They were both far too close to him for comfort, far too deep in an already thickening plot that'd have them needing to shift town and identities in no time. For that he was sure.

"Father?"

He passed the letter down without a word for Alice to scent, not something he'd wanted to ever do but something that needed doing. She'd need the visual imprint if they were to track his whereabouts, Carlisle knowing better than anyone the types of things John Watson could get himself into if left unsupervised – possibly more of a danger to him than that raven-haired pain in the ass who'd sent him spiralling down into chaos and uncertainty in the first place. He watched her idly out of the corner of his eyes as he exchanged glances with his son, Edward already seeming to have made his mind up about the entire situation, Carlisle silently accepting that as Alice pored over the paper in her hands, devouring every dip, every fold and every loop of the letter she had at her disposal, scenting it, allowing herself to become familiar with the character Carlisle knew he'd taken for granted, the harmless little things that had lulled him into a false sense of security. John Watson was (who he considered to be) his best friend, but he'd allowed himself to come too close – to become relied upon. The mess they'd created they'd cleared up – leaving no clues to be followed, to trail of breadcrumbs to lead back to them and their clan. But John Watson wasn't just anyone and, despite everything, he knew it'd be a matter of time before that man, the man he'd called a friend, would be on his doorstep expecting a man more than twice his age and seeing only him.

"Carlisle-" she whispered, gently passing back the letter, doctor slipping it onto the desk alongside the others.

"I'm afraid we run the risk of being compromised," he murmured, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, "call the rest of them – Bella too. Gather the family."

"Carl-"

"Now. Edward. Alice. Do as I say. Don't ask too many questions. Go now."

It wasn't the first time they'd almost been compromised – but now things were far closer to home and heart than they'd ever been before. Bella, as dear as she was to him, was his son's problem and Edward's responsibility… but John was his. Every step the doctor would take closer towards him and his family would be another broken law in the books of the Volturi. John would literally become a dead man walking, a man with a target on his back and a price on his head the moment he'd figure it all out – not really difficult if he were to connect the dots and put one and one together. So they'd silenced a few rats in the past, seen problems before they'd arisen and moved on but this – this was an entirely different situation all together. He was and had been James to that man, a brother in arms, a fellow doctor in the field of battle when all they could rely on was their training and each other. And when he'd been shot –

Carlisle shook his head. Such memories didn't bear reliving. He realised then the only cards he had left to play were James' and, as few as they were, they were the only chance he really had to sway his friend's opinion. He still had a chance – a miniature window of opportunity to nip the problem in the bud before it'd even begin. Carlisle leant over and switched on the screen, pulling the keyboard and mouse towards himself as he began to construct the email he'd attached his hopes too. It was ridiculous really – putting such a large amount of faith into line after line of binary code that may or may not appear too late to save them, but the good doctor continued on regardless of his doubts, stoic in the fact that, if worst came to worst or best came to best, they remained compromised all the same.

Dear John…

"_Cause everything will start again anew _

_Cause everything just goes away my friend._

_And every king knows it to be true_

_That every kingdom must one day come to an end."_

_- Ben Howard – Everything. _


End file.
